GIrony

I know my body. Things happen at regimented time of day.

I am regular. 7am is when I must provide an offering to the porcelain god. Why did I think that my long run on Sunday was going to be any different? Given I am attempting to formulate a race day strategy, I am now humbled.

Despite everything I had scoffed, mocked, misunderstood, silently appreciated about fellow bloggers and She Who Knows Fashion's GI tract challenges, In 5 months of serious pavement pounding, I had yet to truly experience even a hint of explosive discomfort. That all changed yesterday.

In real life, I am a fairly vulgar guy. I could talk of secretions, bodily fluids, and shit with nary a blink. I will be naked and play gay chicken with enough enticement. But when it comes down to my own personal toilet adventures, I tend to be rather private. I can’t stand dumping in public restrooms; so much so that I will squeeze my sphincter so tight I will break a sweat, just to avoid a squat. Even the sight of “someone else’s” poo, human, animal, or otherwise, sends my gag reflex into overdrive. This is a primary reason I don’t own a pet. Trail runs are rough because every now and then, a steamer is on the path.

My back has been giving me some issues this week, so I tried “pre-medicating” before Sundays run with a few Advil. I try not to take Advil. I prefer alcohol. Post-facto, three shots of vodka at 4:30am before the run may have been a better solution. Somewhere around mile 6, the conversation turned to how my back was feeling, which was pretty damn good considering what a nuisance it had been all week. I lamented that I had taken a small handful of ibuprofen and boasted about my iron stomach. God must have heard me, because not minutes later, a cramp the size of Texas was upon me. With a grimace, I lied to my partners that everything was ok, knowing a bathroom was within a mile. I gritted my teeth and puckered up my asshole in an attempt to remain calm. The next half mile was spent trying to dicern if the next burst of anal propeltion would be accompanied by debris. 6:45 am. Right on schedule. I am sure my running partners were wondering why I needed to strip off my water belt as I bolted into the restroom. "Just have to take a leak." I cleverly lied. I just hate it when people know I am taking a shit. A big shout out to whomever was there before me and thankfully left 8 squares of paper, otherwise, the remains of the blow out from my gut would have traveled another 10 miles with me. After that, all was right in the world, except maybe a cramp or two.

Oddly, at our second water stop, She Who Knows Fashion told our partner, Chris, that she was using the “powder” that he had given her and she was not having any GI issues. Guess what that may have been?…yep, Heed! We’re heading to Boulder Running Company this week to stock our shelves.

On a side note, we were dedicated to piloting this long run a full minute slower than normal, which we did. That is, until I left the group at mile 12. Seriously, without even thinking about it, my solo pace took over and I ran the last 5 miles of my 17 at my “normal” pace. And I still had gas in the tank, until I saw the car. Mind over matter. You know you have to run 17 miles, you will. And it may be easier than the 9 miles you did two days before, because you told your body exactly what was expected.

Finally, I went to the Colorado Rockies game yesterday and I did exactly what I said previously. I spent four innings in my seat on a gorgeous spring day in Denver. I then proceeded to spend five innings in the lounge, cheering on Phil Mickelson. It was an amazing day. This is a view from our seats.

Here are She Who Knows Fashion and myself, post-game on Blake Street. Looking Good! I’m not wasted, just tired.

Hump Song of the Long Run. It came on around mile 14.

The Black Crowes - My Morning Song

Yesterdays Run: 16.26 Miles - 10:21 pace  - Yes, I know, its not 17, but the trail was closed, I saw the car and called it a day. Besides, I had to get home to shit in private, again! Also the last 4 miles were run at a 9:10 pace. We like negative splits. Oh yeah, I had a couple beers yesterday. C'mon, I was at a frickin ball game. Finally, I would like to give a shout out to Beth for giving me the courage to write such a post.